One night
by Bubble Holmes
Summary: A story about Mycroft, his problems and the fragile relationship with his younger brother.
1. 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of this story.

Rated **M** for mature content such as self-harming, eating disorders, mental illness, suicidal references, etc.

It's not finished yet.

Hope you'll enjoy this first part *even if it's really really short*

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One night

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1.

The blade touched Mycroft's skin, it sank deep into it leaving a red line before it.

The home was silent: no one upstairs and no one downstairs, no on in the garden.

He was alone in the Holmes' mansion, mother and father were away and Sherlock was roaming around somewhere downtown.

Mycroft begun to shiver, the window in his room was open and the adrenaline in his veins was growing.

It was winter, almost Christmas time.  
Mycroft took a deep breath and proceeded to put another cut on his right arm, more blood came out of it.  
He never cut his wrists , he just cut his arms both left and right, he used to cut his legs as well but he preferred his arm: more pain and more blood, more action.

Another deep breath and another cut on his skin.

He got up from the bed were he was and took another cigarette from the packet.

He would have cut more often if it wasn't the promise he made to Sherlock too many years ago, he told him he wouldn't cut as often as he used to those days.

He used to be much more addicted to it, he couldn't spend a day without doing so. He has always considered himself a week man and that was the best proof of it.

It was night now, the sky was cloudy and a freezing breath of wind come trough the window and made him shiver once again.

He had nothing to cling at.

Just himself.

He hated himself more than any other one in the whole world.

He moved towards the window, taking deep breaths of the cold air.

He noticed someone in the garden.

It was Sherlock and he wasn't alone, there was a girl with him. They were kissing.

He looked at them and then closed the window.

He laid on the bad again, wishing to cry, but he didn't, he never did, he didn't think he ever will.

Everyone managed somehow to go on with their lives, he was the only one who felt trapped in the past, motionless and powerless in front oh his mind, the one that was now slowly killing him.


	2. 2

I just wanted to continue this and I couldn't wait to publish it so here's chapter 2 already

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2.

He lit up his cigarette.  
He was thinking about how things changed. Fast.

Sherlock used to be his little child, his pretty boy but he wasn't anymore. He was just a normal brother or even less.

Sherlock didn't care about Mycroft anymore as many others eventually did.

The only anchor, the only safety Mycroft had always had has been Sherlock.

Sherlock was the only person that was able to keep him busy even for hours, when they were together nothing bad could happen, nothing.

When they were together everything was left outside, nothing mattered apart from each other.

Mycroft sighed and cut himself again, not deeply.  
He remembered when once Sherlock came in his room crying because father beat him.

He remembered the anger he felt, how much he wanted to scream and kill the bastard that was ruining the unstable balance of their family.

He remembered as he hugged Sherlock and stroked his curly hair to calm him down.

He remembered the scent that Sherlock had and the softness of his skin.

He remembered that took him in the garden, in the little tree house they had, the one that it's still in the garden but no one uses anymore.

He remembered how they stood there all afternoon, how the warm sun rays where filling trough the wood of the little windows, how calm Sherlock seamed and how calm Mycroft was in that moment. Mycroft read to Sherlock all after noon, they used to read each others stories quite often, Sherlock loved it so much, he probably didn't even remember about it now.

Mycroft memories were interrupted by footsteps.

Someone was walking up the stairs.

It was Sherlock.

He wasn't with that girl, he was alone.

The footsteps stopped in front of Mycroft door, Sherlock didn't knock, he just stopped there for an endless amount of time; in the meanwhile Mycroft, still on his bed, was trying to hear what Sherlock was now mumbling.


	3. 3

I hope you'll like this new chapter. I'll try to publish the next tomorrow!

Enjoy

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3.

Sherlock crept up the stairs, he was exhausted: it was his fourth sleepless night.

He was walking down the corridor that led to his bedroom when, all of a sudden, he stopped.

He didn't know what was happening for sure, he just stopped there for no apparent reason.

While he was there questioning his mind's decision to stop he realized where he was: he was just in front of Mycroft's room and in that moment he acknowledged that something was wrong: he knew that Mycroft was in that room, he saw him by the window while he was in the garden.

He organized his thoughts and realized that there were a few things that could have been going on in that precise moment but he didn't mind, not anymore.

As soon as he said to himself that nothing of matter was happening he tried to move his feet to finally go to his room but he found himself unable to move, no matter how hard he tried he felt like his feet were firmly glued to the ground.

His mind was trying to tell him something but he didn't want to hear.

His thoughts were fighting with his sentiments.

He was trying to convince himself that he didn't care, that it was useless to go in that room, that it was none of his business, that he didn't want to know, that he just didn't want to know.

Everything blacked out and Sherlock was now again walking in the long corridor, he asked himself if what he had just thought did really happen or it had just been his imagination.

He didn't want to know.

He slowly opened the door of his room and after a few steps he collapsed on his bed.


End file.
